


Who Do They Miss?

by crabmoney3



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Baltimore Crabs, Gen, One day i'll write something that isn't sad nagomi i promise, Unshelling, peanut - Freeform, postseason, sad boy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26937247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabmoney3/pseuds/crabmoney3
Summary: Nagomi is finally unshelled in the middle of game one of the post-season. There is so much she has missed, and no time to register it. Most people joke that Nagomi came back now that Tillman is gone, but how does she feel about that?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Who Do They Miss?

Who Do They Miss?

By crabmoney3

Everything is different now. Time moves faster. The air is colder. I don’t recognize faces. I hardly recognize my own. The birds peck at me; peck, peck, peck. The light is blinding and my lungs sting from the brightness of fresh air rushing in. I smell dark seawater, and grass, and old bay. Am I in Baltimore?

My vision is blurred from the sudden morning sunlight after three seasons of nothing. I can barely make out colors and shapes as already a bat is shoved into my hand, I hear the crowd and my spine shivers at the once-familiar sound of “Na! Go! Mi!” I don’t have time to think before I’m no longer on deck, shoved onto home plate. My legs wobble beneath me, having forgotten how to hold my weight. I take a deep breath, and let my muscle memory do the work for me.

I swing.

I swing so hard that the bat cracks.

The impact travels up my arm and reverberates in my hands, stinging through worn batter’s gloves against soft hands once covered in calluses. I drop the bat and I run. Everything is still a blur of colors, the sunlight still stings and my vision is useless so I close my eyes, and I run. I run until I feel my feet make contact with the bag and I stumble as I round first base. The crowd is cheering, they’re shrieking and it’s so loud they are all birds to me, corvids cackling in the stands. I do not know where the ball is, and I do not care. I couldn’t stop my legs if I tried. I feel myself round second. Then third. The birds are yelling, “Na! Go! Mi! Na! Go! Mi!” My cleat slams into home so hard it stings up my shins. I don’t stop running until I barrel into a crowd of my teammates, lifting me up and welcoming me home while “Pep Crab” blasts throughout the stadium, a clawmentator’s voice booming “Nagomi McDaniel hits a two-run homerun!”

They move me to the dugout and I just sit there, vibrating with adrenaline. My teammates try to talk to me but I can’t connect the sounds to meanings in my head. I think they know this, but can’t stop themselves. Someone hands me cloth, and I run my hands over the scratchy patches. It’s my old Crabs jersey. I run my hand over the matted shirt I’m wearing. The “J” is peeling off. I change between innings and before I can even register there’s been another out I am once again thrust upon home plate.

There are shapes now. Shapes and colors and crows screeching “Na! Go! Mi!” over and over and over. I barely know where I am. But I know what I am here to do. I know what I am meant to do.

I swing.

I hit.

I run.

And I run. And I run. And I run.

The clawmentator booms again, “Nagomi McDaniel hits a three-run homerun!” The crows scream. My teammates scream. I have not made a sound for weeks upon weeks upon weeks and suddenly here I am, screaming along with everyone else. I don’t remember the rest of the game.

After the game, the team calls a meeting to celebrate. It’s not going to be long. We’re in the middle of the playoffs, they tell me. We may even ascend. When did we win a second playoffs? How long have I been back?

Last season, they tell me. We won last season, and I’ve been on the team the whole time I’ve been trapped in the shell. So many players are still within shells. My son is still in a shell. My heart sinks. The team doesn’t give me time to grieve before bombarding me with more information.

Jaylen hits batters with pitches. But Jaylen is dead? No, she’s been brought back. Mike Townsend is in the shadows, and Jaylen is pitching. She’s murdered so many. Maybe York is safer in the shell. Maybe I was safer in the shell. We’ve gotten the fourth strike; the Shelled One is on their way. We can see the hall now. The Hall Monitor walks among us.

I can finally make out the faces around me. Best stands close, protective and worried. I rest my hand against one of his crustacean legs. Sutton has goggles; they look good on her too. Parker and Pedro are beaming, and Tot nestles against my legs. There’s another giant peanut, which could only be Axel. It hurts me to see him like this, but maybe he’s safer in there. There’s Finn and Brock, warming up for later games and smiling at me while they do. Luis introduces themselves to me, and tells me about the music Ollie makes now while playing with the Garages. There’s a cowgirl who catches my eye; she looks almost as confused as me. MoCo and Tosser look more tired than normal, and Kennedy seems to have aged by ten years. Someone is missing.

“Where’s Tillman?” I ask.

Nobody answers. I assure them I won’t be offended he skipped this little reunion. That’s just how he is.

“Tillman got incinerated,” Parker says with a shrug.

He what? I turn frantically look around. Why does no one seem upset about this? Was it that long ago?

“Yeah, like two days ago,” Brock adds.

Two days? Two days, and they’ve already moved past it? Tillman wasn’t the most loved person, yes, but is it really that easy to forget someone you’ve played with since season one?

I think back to every time we made a joke about Tillman being dead weight, and my stomach drops below the stadium. Every jab calling him insufferable, every bit that he was the worst and we’d be better off without him. But that’s all they were, weren’t they? Weren’t they just jokes? We cared about him. I cared about him. Was I wrong this whole time?

The managers tell us it’s time for game two. We make our way back onto the field but I leave my mind in the locker room with thoughts of Henderson. I suppose you never know exactly what people think about you until you’re gone. I suppose in that case, you can never know. We pile into the dugout.

I am lost, staring at a pile of chewed sunflower seeds mashed into the dirt. Somehow, I never imagined the people I cared about would go this way. I always thought I’d be the first one. In truth, I thought I already was. I can hear my teammates laughing, raising their spirits before the game. I hear someone say that I finally came out of the shell because Tillman was gone. Everyone laughs but me.

Do they really think that’s how I’d feel? Do they really think I would wish this on anyone? People do not reveal how they really view you until after you have died, but I am back. I have risen from stasis; I am here after being lost and being mourned, after being gone for so long that I may as well be someone else entirely. This is what they thought of me. This is who I was to them. Someone as cold as to wait until the death of a teammate to rise from the dead myself.

I try to push the thoughts from my head as I step out on deck and begin to practice my swing. Forrest is at the plate. He looks back at me, as though he knows. I hear laughter and I do not know whether it is for me, or for Tillman, for my pain, or for his. I’ve missed my team. I miss my friends. Did they even miss me? Do they only miss me now that I’ve returned? Why do I deserve to be missed, someone they’ve known sporadically, someone they hadn’t seen in years, someone who barely knows who they really are, while someone who’d put their heart into the team since Blaseball’s beginning is mocked and ridiculed while his ashes still burn?

I step up to the plate. The light no longer burns, but I cannot see more than colors as my tears blur my vision. My cheeks become hot and sticky beneath my helmet. I let muscle memory guide me. I close my eyes.

I think about Tillman Henderson.

And I swing.

**Author's Note:**

> i think i should add that i wrote this in the few hours between nagomi getting unshelled and uhhhhh the boss battle taking place so "my son is in a shell. Maybe he's safer that way" REALLY hits different now huh


End file.
